This is the unearthly beauty that the Globohomoists want to deface and expunge from the world under a torrent of mass migration and miscegenation. If you have to put your finger on what you’re fighting for, this image will easily suffice as your Coat of Charms.

***

Anonymous White Male writes,

Why don’t more people notice the fundamental difference between White and black music? The dindus’ music exists solely on the physical plane. It is body oriented, rarely rises above primitive rhythm, and crude to the point of contempt. White music, not what passes for music today, is concerned with higher themes, more melodic and harmonious music, higher lyrical quality, and very little “Look at me! Look at me! See my hand jive? Watch me bust a move!” Children vs. adults.

As evidenced in all modes of expression, northern latitude whites on the whole are the transcendent race.
Whites: transcendent
asians: mystical
latins: celebratory
blacks: primitive

Like this:

If you can’t handle getting rejected ten times successively by ten different girls, you aren’t ready for the Game.

It happened to me, once. Over three weeks, I tried and failed to close ten girls. Tough sledding, to be sure. But I stayed outside my head, and never allowed it to get to me (beyond a post-rough patch recollection of the numbers of girls involved while telling the tale to friends).

No womanizer who’s worth his colloquial designation would fold after ten successive rejections. Maybe he’d muse on his streak of bad luck, but he’d never question his desirability to women. That’s the kind of knee-jerk emotional spasm reserved for blubbery beta males riven with self-doubt after ONE rejection.

Like this:

The Chateau letterbox received this heartfelt appreciation from a reader and artist named Daniele Vek.

Good morning,

I am an avid reader of your blog Goodbye America and I wanted to extend my thanks to you and your work. I am convinced that it’s impact is much broader and deeper than you can imagine. I wanted to thank you, as I knew one day I would, for a particular entry dated July 26th, 2014, titled “Crosshairs on America“. I was still a very young child during the turbulent early 90’s and witnessed the tension of the Rodney King incident and the subsequent LA riots. Though I was comfortable in my suburban bliss, as a child the horror was not lost on me.

As the years went by incidents of domestic terror and social strain heightened and one such was that of the incident at Ruby Ridge. Although I was familiar with the case and had seen the photograph before, I was not yet prepared for the emotional impact of your accompanying message and the commentary to the posting. It was so stunning that I chose the subject and your message to create a painting, my rendition to the last photograph of Mrs. Weaver. This painting is named “Maeror” roughly translated from Latin to grief or suffering. I only recently started painting, and establishing online presence, when I was approached to have Maeror published in an American art and culture circulation. Something I never, ever expected to happen. I’m still shocked and excited because I’ve only been doing this for the past few days, and may I dare say I am all Squee! on the inside. Enclosed is the image, you can also see it on my site link below. I would like to know if it is okay for me to borrow from your post’s description, in particular the line “An American Pietà” it was that specific phrase that made it click for me and got my gears going.

Thank you again, your observations as small as they may appear are huge. Here I am today beginning a career in art with meaning, with feeling, and maybe one day I will impact someone’s entire life, their future, like you just did. From the bottom of my heart and with deep gratitude thank you and continue what you do. It is imperative.

You’re very welcome, Daniele. The best ‘thank you’ a labor of love can receive is another labor of love.

The Goodbye, America post that so moved her had this commentary (plus photo):

THIS PHOTO is my contribution to the “Goodbye America” series. It’s different than the usual images of degeneracy. Instead, it is a tragic snapshot of what was good and noble.

Look at the photo. Haunting, isn’t it?

It’s a US Marshalls surveillance image of the Weaver ranch ahead of the Ruby Ridge massacre. The woman in the photo is Vicki Weaver, who would later that day be shot through the head by an Asian-American FBI sniper, while standing in a cabin door and holding her and Randy’s baby.

If I understand the timeline of events correctly, Vicki Weaver in this photo is mourning the death of her 14-year old son Sammy, killed by the feds earlier that day. If that’s the case, the photo is an American Pietà.

If I recall correctly, long-time reader PA supplied the commentary and “American Pietà” designation. And yes it is a powerful photo. So powerful, in fact, that our legacy leftoid media has seen fit to memory hole it out of ever existing, fearing as they do its use as a rallying symbol of resistance for Heritage America and their nationalist cause against the dehumanizing forces of Globohomoism. You can damn well bet that if a similar photo had existed that supported, rather than undermined, the reigning anti-White Narrative, the media would have blasted the image nonstop for days, weeks, years, hailed its symbolic awesomeness, and appropriated it for every Leftoid suicideology under the black hole sun.

Here is the painting that Daniele created to honor Vicki Weaver and the embattled culture and nation she represents that have been under attack for decades by a malevolent urban cocktail set all too eager to order their diversity shock troops to pull the trigger on White America.

Maeror

A chillingly beautiful work of art, Daniele. True beauty. Not the postmodern ugliness that inbred elitist degenerates think passes for beautiful art.

I only hope now that this post reaches out across the highways, the fields, the suburban tracts, the small towns, the gentrified hipster playgrounds, the media and technohive boardrooms, the campuses of equalism indoctrination, and the psychologically crippled churches…reaches far into their hearts and beyond to an awakening populace….and ignites something, anything, in our growing cells of dissident resistance to fight and fight with divinely inspired fury, throwing everything we’ve got, our strength and our passion, upon the evil, all-consuming globalism goliath, beating it back to its primordial hellsource and returning our people to their land, and the land to our people.

Our Maeror will become our Spero.

PS Yes, you may borrow anything from the post’s description. I won’t speak for PA, but I’m sure he would agree. We are all conduits for Truth and Beauty here at this humble chateau, and our streams of resistance merge freely into a mighty river drowning the souless insectoid bureaucrats and globalist nation wreckers.

Like this:

A rare breed — the low self-esteem hottie — is a delight at the moment of capture in the wild, and a curse when thereafter responsible for her caged domestication.

Naked in a lover’s bedroom and sitting on her desk, one leg propped on the desk’s chair (feel free to picture this), I was fiddling with knick knacks, smiling at her equally naked form lithely upright on the bed, when she sheepishly pulled the bedsheet over her knees. Morning light struggled to pierce the heavy canvas curtain over the window and she seemed to retreat into shadow.

“I’m embarrassed. I don’t have a great body,” she said.

I studied her quizzically, deciding her segue, which was completely at odds with the fact of her great body, deserved a sincere reply. “Really, you have a beautiful body. You don’t need to feel embarrassed.”

The combination of her surprising vulnerability and the sound of my voice comforting her as it mouthed the words “you have a beautiful body” caused a rehardening of the dick-shaped diorama I had impertinently thrown across her desk and chair. The rehardening created a sublime scene in which my supportive words could not have been more blatantly affirmed by my exquisitely timed tumescence.

The ideal low self-esteem hottie is the girl who accepts your sincere affirmations without reservation, and grows with your guidance to become a less neurotic woman, bonding more strongly to you along your shared path. Unfortunately, I have met exceedingly few of these kinds of low self-esteem hotties (who themselves are a minority among the high self-esteem hotties). The typical low self-esteem hottie gets worse the longer one dates her; relationships or flings that are heading toward relationship status — and thus more security for the woman — have the opposite effect on the LSE hottie, nourishing her neuroticism and feeding a manipulative compulsion to sabotage the relationship with her self-doubt and obsessive demands for external validation.

In fact, my take is that the LSE hottie is an evolved female archetype whose purpose (unbeknownst to her) is to filter out supplicating men unable to resist her vulnerability charms and who are given to alleviating her self-doubt whenever she deems their services necessary. These weak men lose her interest rapidly. What she wants is the strong man who knows the right amount of comforting validation is the smallest amount possible without pushing her over the edge to self-cutting. This man — the alpha male — gives her a little, and takes from her more than a little, which has the effect of placing emotional guardrails around her urge for approval-seeking manipulations.

Like this:

Physiognomy is real. Which means bitchiognomy is real. You can judge a woman by her cover. As tomjones says,

In my experience, pretty girls have the best face/body AND the best personalities.
Ugly hideous bitches have ugly hideous personalities or okay personalities. I think there is a connection between the physical beauty of the person and the beauty of the soul. Ugly ones still hope that an attractive man will get them pregnant. Then, they can trap the guy.

The Bitchy Hottie is another one of those pervasive sexual market myths that likely has its origins in the seared and stung egos of striver beta males who received polite rejections from hotties and later, reeling from the plugged up poison of their blue ball hallucinations, post hoc rationalized their loss as a victory over a bitch. Genuinely bitchy feminists are also likely candidates for fueling this myth, given that God’s miscreations have an incentive to blaspheme the good nature of Nature’s winning hands.

Yes, it’s a big myth that hot girls are bitches. Some are, sure, (I’ve dealt with a few sassy strumpets), but on the whole pretty girls are nicer than ugly girls. If a woman is treated well her whole life because she’s pretty, she’ll tend to think the world is a great place overflowing with kindness and love. Many betas confuse hot girl rejection for bitchiness, when in reality most hot girls reject men in exceedingly polite terms. It’s the fugs and marginal girls who are nasty bitches when they reject the betas they think aren’t in their league.

Here’s a handy dandy hierarchy of what I’ve observed is the “Bitchiness Quotient” of women at various SMVs along the belle curve:

I hope the CH readers have noticed the patterns in the above HB-BQ correlations. First, there’s a general leaning among hot babes and ugly girls toward niceness over bitchiness. Hot babe niceness is explained above (i.e., it’s easy and fun to be nice when the world loves you). Ugly girl niceness is a result of low self-esteem. When you are beaten down by life and have lost all confidence in yourself as a romantic catch, you’ll be nice to people more out of necessity than good will.

UG niceness is similar to the Niceguy’s deference; neither one feels as though they have social elbow room to fly their hate flag or even show mild disapproval when slighted. Neither one would dare express their true feelings to another person or a group if they believed there was even a tiny chance their words would be misconstrued as anything less than fulsome praise or abject supplication. This is the prison low value people live in; a cramped world in which all thoughts are checked to avoid the omnipresent threat, always nearer for them than for their betters, of social expulsion.

However, one difference between the insta-personalities of HBs and UGs is the variance. HBs are rarely unpleasant. In contrast, UGs on the boundary between ugliness and mediocrity span the niceness gamut; not a few are repulsive bitches, having turned to the snark side by an Inner Palpatine coaxing them to embrace their pariah status. Smart, overeducated UGs are the most prominent, and worst, example of this breed. They survive by banding together, so you will rarely deal with them mano-a-monster.

The BQ sour spot is the middle of the female beauty curve, smack dab in Plain Jane country. The 4s, 5s, 6s, and sometimes 7s are the girls who were born into bitchiness, molded by it, and have emerged from the other side skilled at lashing out in the general direction of any approaching man. Plain Janes have enormous chips on their shoulders from endlessly straddling that labial wedge between cute-enough-for-betas and not-cute-enough-for-alphas. The pressure of this wedge is exacerbated by the entitled self-assurance of the omega and beta males who hit on them without their consent, and by the evasiveness of the alpha males who toy with them with their consent.

Plain Janes are as likely, if not more likely, to be bitches as to be half-hearted nicegirls, and when they’re bitches they aim to be the biggest bitches on earth. The Plain Jane is occasionally nice, but then only to men well out of her league, for whom she nurses an unreasonable expectation of reciprocated desire, partly inflamed by the paternal kindness of these men toward her. To all others, including hot women, the Plain Jane is an annoying cockblock too full of herself, unless she has been blessed with a predisposition for circumstance-immune niceness.

High BQ PJs often wind up childless spinsters by their mid-30s because they couldn’t suffer the indignity of settling, especially if they have wasted their prime nubility years on a quixotic quest to ensnare alpha cock beyond the pump and dump statute of relegation. HBs don’t settle (much), and the UG’s gratitude for any man, however lowly, who shows her love overrides her distaste for settling.

Aging beauties are another demo that has a high BQ. Totally understandable, if still noxious. The 21-year-old HB8 who by inevitability of age has degraded to a PJ6 as early as her 30th birthday is right down there with the overeducated UG0 in quickness to resort to repellent bitchiness for no apparent reason. The cunty cougar and odious spinster aren’t stereotypes for nothing.

Ya know, patriarchy would solve all these problems that bedevil mediocre women.

Like this:

This edition of the Washington Bezos’ “Date Lab” is a rarity; not for the beta male’s crash and burn (all too common) but for the clues in the quotes that reveal a budding shitlady navigating the dating shoals of DC, which next to San Frannie and Minneapolis is the shitlibbiest of shitlibistans.

Policy analyst Adam Staveski, 22, and financial analyst Maddie Csere, also 22, are fresh-faced and fresh out of local colleges, enjoying their first year as D.C. young professionals. We sent them to Maple in Columbia Heights to see if a shared love of running, economics and a laid-back attitude was enough to spark a fresh romance.

Read the story and keep an eye out for a name-drop of an infamous Twatter icon.

.

.

.

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Got it? Ok.

Once you’ve found it, consider that this girl, Maddie, might very well be a female shitlord…a shitlady….and I mean that in the most complimentary way.

Evidence that Maddie is a closet alt-righter:

Harambe name drop

she’s from rural Michigan (Trumpland)

according to her date, she’s able to “look at [political issues] with a lot of nuance”

one of Maddie’s deal-breakers is someone who’s “extremely political” (aka a shitlib)

Number 3 is really telling. Any shitlady wading through the bug-eyed hysteria of a major shitlibistan learns to handle the local fauna with savviness and a deft inscrutability. Parroting shitlib insanity is the cheap accommodation; better is to retain one’s dignity by slipping realtalk into the hivemind miasma under cover of plausibly deniable “nuance” to avoid triggering one of the snowflakes into calling for ostracism air support.

And number 4 seals it for me; extreme politicization is the domain of liberals. Conservatives are much less invested in publicly debating politics and the status whoring verbal sparring that goes along with it. When a girl says she wants to avoid “extremely political” dates, she means “liberal male feminists who enjoy buttplay (their own)”.

This chick Maddie is RIPE for the taking by any Trumpentrooper who wants her. Just show up with biceps and a smirk.

***

Reader Little Spoon asks,

Can you give them a more attractive name than shitlady? Alt lady? No actually that sounds like some new kind of trans gender. I don’t know. You’re better with words than I am. But going on names alone, leftoid is more becoming than shitlady.

A reader passes along an anecdote that tells of The Trumpening sweeping the nation. I reprint it in full here.

******

Heartiste,

I just wanted to drop you a line about something that happened this morning at work, 6AM on a Saturday being the white man’s burden when you work in construction.

A T level most certainly is rising across the fruited plain.

I’m a construction superintendent, working currently on a project to build a Starbucks in an airport outside of the security area. I unlocked the job site for some of my subcontractors before they arrived, and went upstairs to pass through security with my airport credentials so that I could grab a tray of caffeinated nectars for my worker bees. The manager for the food service company comps me free coffees because we’re building their other location.

I noticed a new worker behind the register today. Young lad, probably 19 or 20, working his weekend gig as there’s a state college nearby. He’s as tall as I am at 5’11”, and has the lean runner’s build that I once had in my youth before I started to lift and weld for a living. His hair is blonde, a bit long but not unkempt but waving out a bit on the sides from beneath his company hat. I’m dressed casually. Button-down Carhartt plaid work shirt, well-fitting jeans, and Red Wing work boots. I have my Trumpening campaign donation hat on– it’s glorious simplicity broadcasting a bold MAGA on a crimson background.

The young fellow gets told by the manager that I’m all set– a woman in her mid to late forties, post wall, but with a prominently displayed rock and wedding band on her finger. She radiates a maternal glow despite her declined looks that reveal a stunner in previous years. The young blonde man can’t hold it back anymore, and he looks for the fifth time at my hat, locks eyes with me and his face starts beaming from ear to ear in that sort of genuine happiness that may make him look a bit buffoonish, but his youthful excitement won’t let him control his state. He slides my coffees over and gushes, “Man, I LOVE that hat!!!” I ask, “Do you have one?” He does not. I have four or five of them from my repeat donations and an order for two more. I took my hat off and handed it to him, and he’s beside himself with thanks.

He struck me as a young man who is a beta of circumstance of his environment, on the precipice of losing his last fuck to give about Leftoid sensibilities so pervasive in our culture. He innately knows, and maybe isn’t quite able to articulate it yet, that what is happening with Trump is a very wholesome and virtuous thing.

I walked away thinking, for the first time in a long time, that there really is hope for nation.

Keep up the tireless work. You have my faith and support.

******

It’s the little trumpenings like the one in this story that, added together, foretell a revolution so mighty and unstoppable it will smash the edifice of the One World/One Race Globalist Order and replace it with what has been lost and ignored for far too long: Truth and Beauty. Our fathers might have thought, “someday a real rain will come and wash away the filth”. The rains have come. The filth is scurrying for the sewers. Tomorrow brings a Golden Don.

PS Reader Corvo offers his own Trumpening anecdote.

I was campaigning for Trump knocking on doors in a run-down PA town this past weekend with a 20-something year-old young White man. This town used to be full of working-class Whites, now most of the houses are abandoned or inhabited by blacks or mestizos who don’t speak English.

Out of roughly 60 doors we knocked on in this neighborhood, there were only a handful of Whites; they seemed to me cut-off, desperately clinging to what little they had left and surrounded by a sea of decay as the third-world rose around them. They were pretty shocked to see two White men with MAGA hats knock on their door offering bumper stickers and campaign flyers.

One man was so happy to see us, he shook our hands and thanked us for coming out and said he couldn’t remember the last time a Republican presidential campaign came through his neighborhood. This young goy I was with had a TRUMP t-shirt (new from the campaign office) on top of his long-sleeved shirt, and he took the Trump t-shirt off and handed it to the guy and said “Here, take this one, I’ll get another one later.”

People are waking up, indeed.

That’s a great vignette of life in America’s Forgotten White communities. These are the left behind people disparaged as “deserving to die” by fatcuck NROnik Kevin Williamson and as “deplorable” by corruptcunt Hillary Clinton. Instead of helping these lost souls, our anti-White cucks and Clintonista globalist whores want to heap an endless procession of miseries upon them. There isn’t a lake of fire deep enough and hot enough to consume all the rottenness and malevolence that animates Hillary Clinton’s wicked corporeal form.